


Particularly Bad At Riddles

by bottleredhead



Series: Particularly Bad [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Parallel Universe, Enjolras is very confused, Grantaire's been a bad boy with Monty, M/M, Montparnasse is actually nice in this, Promptfic, how do you tag, there are basically two of everyone but in different universes okay? okay., this is a fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:30:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottleredhead/pseuds/bottleredhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s snapped out of his reverie when Grantaire’s hands rise to rest on his biceps. “Enjolras, are you drunk?”</p><p>“Why is Montparnasse here?” he retaliates.</p><p>“Because he’s my boyfriend? Enjolras, I don’t get it, are you drunk or something?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Particularly Bad At Riddles

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "Enjolras wakes up in an alternate reality where he is in a relationship with Grantaire. and freaks out when he finds Grantaire in his bed. 
> 
> Enjolras2 wakes up in a reality where he isn't in a relationship with Grantaire and promptly freaks Grantaire out with his touchy-freely-ness."
> 
> Prompt link: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13289.html?thread=8515561t8515561
> 
> This is a fun one!

The continuous beep of the alarm echoes around the bedroom, prompting Enjolras to wake from his slumber. Blinking the bleariness away from his eyes, he grimaces at the sunlight streaming through the windows. Grantaire always forgets to pull the blinds shut after he’s done painting. It’s not as though Enjolras can reprimand him, really, seeing as he falls asleep at his desk more often than he does in the arms of his boyfriend.

Stretching languidly, his fingers seek the warmth Grantaire radiates like a furnace. He turns when he doesn’t find it.

Grantaire’s side of the bed is empty and made, as though the artist never came home last night. Enjolras racks his brain, trying to remember if Grantaire has an early studio class before realising that it’s Saturday.

_Well, that’s odd._

Calling the artist is fruitless, the no-answer beep grating on his nerves and causing irritation to fester in him. The rational part of his brain (which is about 85% of the grey matter) realises that the irritation is actually worry for his lover.

When he’s dressed and ready, keys jangling in one hand and pamphlets for the upcoming rally in the other, Enjolras heads towards Café Musain for the brunch-meeting of the Amis.

The café is empty except for Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Cosette, Marius and Eponine. The latter and the former of the group are smiling shyly at each other as Marius and Cosette snuggle in one of the large armchairs. Courfeyrac is typing furiously on his laptop.

“Morning,” calls Enjolras, setting the pamphlets on the large table usually reserved for Amis meetings. “Have any of you heard from Grantaire?”

Courfeyrac grins at him. “ _Ooh, someone’s in trouble!_ What’s he done now?”

“Whatever it is, Enjolras, don’t lose your shit over it. Amnesty International sent the prep package for the rally.” Combeferre’s tone is no-nonsense, briskly changing the topic.

Enjolras frowns at them. “He hasn’t done anything, as far as I’m aware. I was wondering if you heard from him this morning because he didn’t come home last night.”

Eponine trills at his words, the laughter bubbling up her throat as though caught off-guard. “Well, I can certainly confirm that he didn’t come home last night.” The lecherous grin that accompanies her words does nothing to assuage his worry.

The doors of the café swing open at precisely that moment, allowing passage to a very disheveled Grantaire. Trailing behind him, hand tucked into the artist’s back pocket, is Montparnasse. He’s equally disheveled-looking.

“Morning, everyone!” calls Grantaire, raising his arm in a salute. “Morning, O Fearless Leader,” he directs at Enjolras, bowing at the waist.

Absentmindedly, his gaze focused on where Montparnasse’s hand disappears, Enjolras replies, “I told you not to call me that.”

The mocking twist of Grantaire’s mouth is familiar yet half-forgotten, a mockery of the smile that is always gracing his boyfriend’s face these days. It’s a bucket of ice-cold water, a splash that confirms that something is very, terribly, horribly wrong.

“Grantaire, may I talk to you for a moment?”

A raised black brow and a bark of laughter. “Sure, Apollo,” Grantaire says, disentangling from Montparnasse.

When the both of them are safely out of sight and earshot in front of the bathrooms of the café down the hall, Enjolras takes Grantaire’s face in his hands, tips of his fingers digging into the curls at the other man’s temples. “Are you alright? You didn’t come home last night.”

The confused expression on Grantaire’s face would be comical if it wasn’t for the tingle at the back of his mind screaming at him to run, _get out of here_.

“Why would it matter to you anyway, whether I come home or not? Are _you_ alright, Apollo?”

“What do you mean, why would it matter to me? And since when does Montparnasse attend Amis meetings?” He’s aware that neither of them is answering the other’s question, simply demanding more answers.

The confusion on Grantaire’s face smoothens out into that of understanding. Amusement sparkles in his electric-blue eyes, made all the more striking against his alabaster skin and ink-black hair. Enjolras’ gaze rests on his neck, on the spot that when he sucks on Grantaire positively keens with pleasure, then flicks up to his mouth, the redness of which increases tenfold when the blond man nibbles on. The tresses falling over Grantaire’s forehead bring to mind groans of pleasure that shoot directly to his groin, murmurs of _fuck yes, Apollo_ and moans of breathless _more_ ’s.

He’s snapped out of his reverie when Grantaire’s hands rise to rest on his biceps. “Enjolras, are you drunk?”

“Why is Montparnasse here?” he retaliates.

“Because he’s my boyfriend? Enjolras, I don’t get it, are you drunk or something?”

But Enjolras has stopped listening, has long since stopped paying attention to Grantaire. He’s dimly aware of his hands dropping from the artist’s face as though they’ve been burned. One word rings in his ears, echoing around his skull until he can feel a headache forming between his eyes.

_Boyfriend._

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd.
> 
> Comments and kudos very welcome! 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at enjolraspermitsit.tumblr.com.


End file.
